


Show Me Love

by Sophia_Bee



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Boys Kissing, Central Park, Charles Being Concerned, Charles Getting Uncomfortable, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Cute, Drugs, Erik is a Sweetheart, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Marijuana, Psychotropic Drugs, References to Drugs, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5096171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is in love with his best friend, Erik. Erik gets a moped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I took the title from a old school Robin S. song that then became the title for one of my fave queer teen movies of all time, Show me Love, directed by Lukas Moodysson, and actually titled Fucking Amal. 
> 
> I was inspired by a marathon listening of Macklemore's Downtown. _"You don't need an Uber, you don't need a cab, Fuck a bus pass, you got a moped man"_ and I thought, OMG, Erik on a moped would kill me. But he would pull it off. Even in powder blue. 
> 
> Originally posted on tumblr.
> 
> Fan art by Arisu Paints [here](http://arisupaints.tumblr.com/post/132048664697/a-quick-drawing-of-charles-and-erik-on-a-moped)
> 
> This is sans beta. You'll have to forgive me. It's not quite perfect.

Erik looks strange straddled over the seat of the moped. It an odd juxtaposition, his long, tall body and the shining, compact machine geared to hipsters who buy them in order to wax nostalgic over their summer in Italy then sell them when the rain started. Charles thinks his friend might look better leaning against the lean, strong lines of a Harley Davidson. He doesn’t say anything though, because the smile Erik flashes him as he walks down the school steps is wide and unusually sunny. It also steals Charles’ breath away, so even if he was going to question his best friend's decision to use his meager savings on the powder blue scooter he was standing over so proudly, he couldn’t have. Life was funny that way. Being head over heels in love with your best friend has a way of stealing your words away. 

“Want to go study in the park?” Erik asks once Charles is in earshot. Charles shifts the weight of his overloaded book bag and nods. The park means Edie is working late. Erik hates being home alone but he hates Charles slumming at his rundown walk up when Charles lives in a mansion. Charles had tried to explain once that he much preferred the cluttered confines of the Lehnsherr apartment, with the laundry heaped on the couch and dirty dishes in the sink, but Erik had turned red from embarrassment and shame over his living conditions, so Charles had stopped trying to convince him it was okay. 

“It’s warm enough.” Charles says, glancing upwards at the azure blue sky, squinting a little. The sun is shining on Erik, bringing out the glints of red that show through now and then. The leaves of the trees that tower above them are a million shades of red, yellow and orange and despite the sunshine, the air holds a hint of coolness. Erik will have a blanket, probably a couple joints and they’ll pretend to study, instead spending most of their time talking about things, like the newest developments between the Israelis and Palestinians, or the refugee crisis in Europe. Charles hopes Erik doesn't bring up the kibbutz idea. The idea of not seeing Erik all next summer causes Charles physical pain and the last time it had come up he had gone home and cried himself to sleep. 

They might talk about the dance. Charles hopes they don’t talk about the dance. 

Every fall the private school Charles and Erik attend holds a formal dance and every fall Charles and Erik avoid it. Erik says it’s not his scene, but Charles knows that what he’s really saying is that the fall formal, where the girls show off their haute couture and everyone arrives in limos, isn’t really for the scholarship kids. Plus, ever since Charles told Erik he thinks he might like boys, omitting that he might like a specific boy, the one who had rested his chin on his hands as they floated at the edge of the Xavier pool and given Charles a long contemplative gaze as he absorbed what Charles was telling him, Erik had been making the occasional suggestion about who at the school might be a worthwhile date for Charles. Charles didn’t need him to suggest Scott again, the sophomore in his AP chemistry class with the rainbow flag on his messenger bag, who wears oversized hipster headphones in the hallway between class that play EDM constantly and goes clubbing in the city every weekend, one more time. Scott is obvious and not Charles’ type. Charles knows exactly who he would take to the fall dance. He’s played it over and over in his head at least a million times. 

He would pick up Erik in one of his step father’s vintage Rolls Royce’s, a collection habit that his mother indulges with the fortune left to her by Charles’ father. Erik would look stunning in his thrift-store tuxedo. They would have a picnic dinner somewhere amazing, like the rooftop deck of a high rise, somewhere most people never get to go. Then they would go to the dance, where, after a half hour, they would realize is lame, full of boring, drunk, rich classmates, so they would escape. Their evening would end with a slow dance in front of a fountain. 

Charles may have watched too many John Hughes movies. 

“Charles?” Erik asks, jerking Charles out of his revelry. Charles feels a stab of sadness. There would be no dance, no thrift store tux, no dance by the fountain. 

“Should I meet you there?” Charles asks. Instead of answering, Erik reaches down and pulls a shiny helmet from his bag on the ground. Charles tries to ignore the way his heart swells at the fact that his friend had thought of him, then quickly realizes that the helmet wasn't specifically for him. Why would it be? It was just practical. Surely Erik would be giving rides on his scooter to other people, not just Charles. He pushes aside images of Erik with some random girl wrapped around him speeding by, leaving Charles standing bewildered in his rear view mirror. The thrill he’d felt quickly shifts to disappointment.

“Hop on!” Erik says, “there’s room for two.”

Charles’ heart jumps again. He silently curses himself then steps towards Erik, taking the helmet Erik is extending towards him. Turning it over in his hands, Charles places it on his head and starts to fumble with the chin strap while wishing he didn’t feel so clumsy and awkward. Erik smiles, then, brushing Charles’ fingers aside, fastens it with a deft click, his fingers brushing gently on the delicate skin under Charles’ chin. Charles swallows hard. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stand Erik’s innocent touches, the intimacy of friendship that hurts so much. Why does love have to sting like this? 

Charles walks to stand beside the scooter then he swings a leg over the seat and settles down behind Erik. He feels confused, not entirely sure what to do with his hands, but there’s no way he’s going to say seated once they start moving, so after a moment of hesitation, he wraps them around Erik’s slim waist. Erik shifts a bit and Charles can feel his muscles move. Then, in moment of pure insanity, Charles tips his head forward and presses himself against Erik’s back, burying his face into the soft flannel of the shirt Erik wears at least three times a week. He inhales deeply, feeling the softness of the worn fabric against his cheek, and for just a minute he pretends that his life his different. Erik loves him. He loves Erik, and he can do this. He can take in how Erik smells of the bargain soap his mother buys at the big box store in Jersey on the way home from her second job, along with the spicy scent of the expensive cologne Charles had convinced Erik to buy on a recent shopping trip to Barney’s. He can feel the warmth of Erik’s skin radiating, the rise and fall of his chest, and maybe, somewhere in the background, the very beating of his heart. And it's okay. Because Erik is his. He always has been. He always will be. 

Charles shivers. He squeezes his eyes shut and against his will, a tear leaks out. 

“Cold?” Erik asks, his voice tinged with concern. He turns his head to glance backwards just as Charles lifts his head and adjusts himself, putting just enough to keep that distance between them that tells the lie of ‘just friends.’ 

“Yeah.” Charles says, biting at his lip then offering what he hopes is a friendly smile. “Cold. I’m cold.” 

It’s not the first time he’s lied. It won’t be the last. It’s the price he pays for having what little of Erik he can.


	2. Chapter 2

“So the dance.” Erik says. Charles doesn’t answer. He takes a long drag on the joint and feels that familiar sense of lethargy start to steal over him. He blinks over at Erik who is watching him through narrowed eyes. 

“Charles?” Erik asks. 

“I thought we didn’t do the dance.” Charles manages to squeak out. An almost perfect afternoon starts to circle the drain. 

“Emma asked me.” 

Emma. Charles fights the urge to roll his eyes. 

Emma is a nice girl. A perfectly fine girl. That’s what Charles tells Erik if he asks. She’s new at St. Jude’s that year, daughter of a hedge fund manager on his fourth marriage, and she had latched onto Erik right away. She wears him like a badge of honor, just like her rolled up skinny jeans, Birkenstocks and boho couture that looks like she picked up at the neighborhood thrift shop but probably cost enough to support a family of four in Iowa. 

Charles hates Emma. 

He pictures Emma on the back of Erik’s scooter, smiling in that golden, vacant way she does, charming the world around her. He knows that it will remind her of her summer in Italy, the one daddy paid for, where she tried peyote for the first time and partied with a b-list movie star. 

“Are you going to go?” Charles asks, keeping his voice casual. The joint dangles from his fingertips and he fights the urge to hyperventilate as he waits for Erik’s answer. He doesn’t go to dances. THEY don’t go to dances. But maybe Erik likes Emma. Maybe he’s willing to let go of his pride in order to go to the dance and spend a night in her arms. Charles hates his life at that moment, lying on the rough, wool blanket in the park, the sun starting to slip lower in the sky, a few birds chirping in the trees, the sounds of a group of kids playing soccer and his best friend, who Charles is madly in love with, about to crush his heart even further. 

“I don’t know.” Erik drawls. Charles can tell that he’s starting to feel the pot. Erik always gets slower, more contemplative, when he’s high. “I feel like I should say yes.” 

Charles fights back the urge to sit up and snap at his best friend, ask him why he would ever feel any obligation to someone as shallow and vapid as Emma Frost. He wants to tell Erik that she’s using him, increasing her anti-Upper East Side hipster cred, and before he knows it, she’s going to be flying him to Coachella with backstage passes and Charles is going to be left behind. 

“Then say yes.” Charles mutters. He doesn’t follow up with a pissy, ‘see if I care’, because why should he care? Why would it matter who Erik goes to the school dance with? Erik is quiet for a long while, and Charles mentally flips through his ongoing list of current topics he can bring up to distract Erik, landing on the recent Canadian elections. He’s about to launch into a tirade about Steven Harper when Erik opens his mouth and makes everything worse.

“I just wish you could come with me.” 

Charles pictures Erik in that thrift store tux, the dance by the fountain. How can his best friend unintentionally hurt him over and over, knowing just the right thing to say at the right time to make Charles hurt the most. 

“I know!” Erik says. Charles turns his head, pretending to see something interesting, but he knows Erik isn’t paying attention. “You could ask Scott.”

Charles rolls his eyes.

“Why would I want to ask that eye-liner wearing twink?” Charles spits out, surprising himself with his own vitriol. The moment the words emerge from his lips, Charles regrets them. 

“Oh.” Erik says.

“I just…” Charles stammers, turning back too look at Erik. The look of hurt on his best friend’s face is too much and Charles quickly tries to soften his words. “He’s just not my type.”

“But he’s gay.” Erik blurts out. 

“Just being gay isn’t enough.” Charles says kindly. His friend is trying. He knows this. 

“Then what’s your type?” Erik asks eagerly, and Charles suddenly pictures a future where the boy he’s in love with starts presenting him with endless dating possibilities, each one not his type because his type is…

You. 

Charles wants to say it. He is dying to say it. His type is tall, dark, brooding, sensitive, self-conscious, and loyal. His type is Erik. 

“Just not Scott.” Charles manages to mutter. 

“Well, come with us.” Erik says impulsively. Charles thinks that Emma will be thrilled. She picks up the school’s bad boy and he comes with his geek best friend. That’s not something John Hughes wrote a movie about. Still, Charles can’t say no. He can’t deny Erik anything. If Erik wants him to tag along with him and Emma, to endure endless conversations about her model deal, her winter in Aspen, her future as a movie star, and how stupid and vacant everyone around her is, he’ll do that. If he wants him to sit on the sidelines and watch Erik and Emma slow dance, wishing with every cell in his being that he was home with his genetics textbooks and Pretty in Pink streaming, he’ll do it. 

“Okay.” Charles says, pushing himself up. “As long as it’s okay with Emma.” 

Erik smiles. God, Charles loves it when Erik smiles. He doesn’t do it that often, but he will smile for Charles. He smiles when he sees Charles, laughs at his jokes, grins when Charles points out his mistakes on his math homework, beams when Charles tells him the correct pronunciation of French words. When Erik smiles, Charles will do anything for him, including going to the god-awful fall dance. 

Erik slaps Charles on the shoulder then rubs his hand down his bicep in yet another painful gesture of familiarity. 

“Oh, she’ll say yes. Otherwise, I won’t go.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Here.” 

Charles looks down at the pills Emma Frost has just dumped into his hands. He looks to Erik who is frowning a bit, and Charles knows he’s seen Charles hesitation. 

“My dealer says their good.” Emma says, tossing her long blonde hair back and smiling. Charles stares down at the small, bright blue pills. What the fuck has he got himself into?

“Erik brought pot.” Charles says, trying not to sound petulant. Emma levels a gaze at him that says she thinks he’s being a big baby. Charles ignores her. He’s not about to be bullied into something by the likes of Emma. He’s bigger than that, better than her. 

Emma drapes her arms around Erik’s neck, her laughter tinkling into the night, and Charles watches as Erik bends his head and kisses Emma. His heart clenches. 

Charles wants to pulls Erik aside, to ask him what the fuck he’s thinking. It’s one thing if one of the rich kids get caught totally jacked up. They have lawyers and endless money at their disposal. There was rumor that the new gym at St. Jude’s was the result of one of the football players cocaine binge a few years ago. But Erik isn’t one of those kids. A scholarship kid caught high as a kite means getting kicked out of school. 

Charles would totally pull Erik aside, except that Erik is sucking on Emma’s face, and Charles wants to look away but he can’t. Emma moans, her voice plastic and fake and Charles thinks he sees tongue. 

Fuck it. 

Charles tosses back the pills then takes a sip from the flask that Erik had pressed into his hand earlier, feeling the cheap scotch burn down his throat. Charles could have scored better booze from Sharon’s cabinet, but Erik was proud even on this point and had insisted on buying his own alcohol for the dance. Emma probably thought it made Erik even cooler, drinking stuff that anyone can score from the corner bodega. Charles just hopes it gets him good and drunk, and fast. 

The dance isn’t at the high school gym. That would be too blase for this crowd. They’ve rented a ballroom in one of the fancy hotels, along with a firm to decorate the entire room in some sort of bizarre underwater theme. There’s a live band on the stage playing bubbly tunes and the whole floor is filled with gyrating bodies. Emma lets out a loud whoop, then declares to no one in particular that she has arrived, adding ‘bitches’ and drags Erik towards the dance floor. Charles just stand there, feeling uncomfortable and sweaty in his tuxedo, still gripping Erik’s flask. It’s not rented. Kids like him don’t rent tuxedos. They get fitted every year for the various family obligations, where they are trotted out with their perfect manners so their parents can brag about what colleges they’re accepted in. Erik, of course, had forgone the tux, donning slim black jeans and a long coat with a black t-shirt underneath. It was entirely against dress code but Emma loved it, running her hands up and down Erik’s chest and murmuring that no one better dare kick them out or her daddy would hear about it. That was the first time Charles had thought to himself that death might be better than this experience. It wouldn’t be the last that night.

Charles walks over to one of the walls and leans against it. The pills are kicking in. Charles feels a tingle start in his legs, his stomach flutters, he looks around him and really, it’s not that bad being here. The band finishes, a DJ takes over, and suddenly the whole room is thumping. Charles reaches into the pocket of his tux, finds the flask and takes another drink. The alcohol buzzes along his veins and he thinks that if he has to get through this night, this might be the best way possible. 

Time seems to warp. Charles stays where he’s standing, pressed against the coolness of the wall, his head spinning. He hates that he’s alone. He wants to be with someone. No, not someone. He wants to be with Erik. He wants to feel this happy and bubbling and have Erik by his side. Erik is still out on the dance floor, lost to Charles, having the fucking time of his life in the arms of Emma. 

It’s better this way. Charles pictures Erik, pictures his lips, his eyes, imagines how it would feel to kiss him, and he knows that he might just do that if his best friend were standing next to him. He might reach over and take his hand, pull him towards him and lean in, pressing his lips to Erik’s. It would be the beginning of everything he dreamed of and the end of his world. So it’s better if Charles just leans against the wall and keeps all of this to himself. Erik and Emma can have their dance, and maybe they’ll end up in one of the many suites that most of the kids rent out for the night, where they can continue the party, or commence to the fucking that is standard with these types of events. 

Better this way. 

Yeah. 

Charles sighs. Whatever Emma gave him is good, but not good enough to keep his dilemma entirely at bay. 

“Hey.” 

Charles jerks at the sound of Erik’s voice in his ear, low and rumbling, and he feels a jolt of desire spark through him. He turns to find his best friend leaning against the wall next to him. Erik reaches out and Charles instinctively hands him his flask, watching the lines of Erik’s throat as he tips it back and swallows. 

“I have a couple joints.” Erik says, his words slightly slurred. Charles has seen Erik wasted enough times to know that he’s well on his way to a good time tonight. Erik smiles sloppily and his gaze is somewhat unfocused. “We could go to the park.” 

Charles almost laughs. The park. The fucking park. Sometimes it feels like the bane of his existence. It’s their place, but it’s nothing, like a sad joke about his life. The park means just Erik and Charles and Erik and Charles mean nothing. 

“Haven’t you had enough?” Charles asks somewhat unsteadily, watching Erik drain the flask. He wonders how much of the flask he drank. He can’t quite remember. The whole evening is a blur.

“Nah.” Erik murmurs, “I’m okay. Want to smoke up?”

“What about Emma?” Charles asks, wondering where exactly Erik has left his date. Erik looks out onto the dance floor and Charles follows his gaze. Emma is there, clearly high as a kite, and she’s turning circles, her arms spread out wide. Anyone else would have looked like an idiot, but Emma looks golden and sparkling. While most kids at St. Jude’s would have their reputation ruined by a moment like this, it’s Emma Frost, and the crowd is clapping and cheering, carried along by her reverie. 

“Must have been some good stuff.” Erik says, shrugging a little. Charles realizes that he’d given Erik too little credit. He hadn’t taken the pills after all. He can't hold back the goofy smile that spreads across his face, but he does manage not to throw himself into Erik’s arms and declare his love. “Anyway.” Erik continues, turning back to Charles and flashing him a smile. “She’s kind of a douche.” 

Charles smiles. He wants to laugh and cry at the same time. He’s overwhelmed with some sort of happy, glowing, loving feeling and suddenly he throws himself into Erik’s arms. Erik startles at his friend suddenly being in his arms, but instead of pulling away, he relaxes and closes those strong arms around Charles, holding him in a way that Charles had only dreamed of. 

That was the moment Charles broke. 

If he’d been not quite as high or drunk, if he’d had any wits about him, Charles would have pulled back, given Erik an awkward pat on the shoulder to offset the moment of vulnerability they’d just experienced together, but Charles doesn’t do any of that. Erik is warm and solid, and he smells good, but not different. Charles realizes that Erik didn’t do anything special for the dance. He breathes in the same scent of soap and cologne, and it’s so familiar that Charles aches. He might have pulled back, but he doesn’t. Instead Charles tips his head up and kisses Erik. 

He kisses Erik. 

The ballroom is dark and the corner Charles had escaped is even darker, and everyone is staring at Emma, so it’s not like they notice the fact that Charles Xavier has just kissed Erik Lehnhserr. They also don’t notice that Erik kisses Charles back. He lets out a long, low groan, and Charles can understand, because he’s never felt so alive or turned on, and he doesn’t want it to stop. He opens his mouth and Erik’s tongue slips along his, urging Charles to open even wider. It’s sloppy and wet and more than Charles has ever dreamed of. He feels his dick start to grow hard and his hips start to move on their own accord and suddenly Erik is pulling back and staring down at Charles. Charles takes in a deep, shaking breath. 

This is it. This is the end.

He waits for the rejection, the push away, the explanation, the embarrassment, the apology. He waits for Erik to tell him that he loves him, but only as a friend. His best friend. He loves him but he’s sorry, he can’t do this. He can’t be who Charles wants him to be. Charles waits for the last moment of their friendship, the one where he watches Erik walk away, and no matter how hard they try, nothing is ever the same again. 

Erik’s face is a mask of shadows. Charles just wants it to be over. Then Erik opens his mouth, and says, in a voice raspy with sex and want:

“Let’s get out of here.”


	4. Chapter 4

Charles eyelids feel stuck and his mouth is cottony. The light shining through his bedroom window is too bright and his head feels full of stuffing. He moans a little and turns his head into the pillow, grabbing another one and shoving over his head.

How much did he drink last night.

Last night.

Oh my god. Last night.

Charles kissed his best friend last night.

Charles wants to die.

He can’t remember much. Well, that’s a lie. He can remember everything. Every single little thing. Erik gripping his hand and pulling him out of the ballroom, Charles following with a sloppy, silly grin on his face, because Erik kissed him. Erik kissed him and wanted more.

He remembers the way the wind had felt on his face as he’d wrapped his arms around Erik’s waist and they sped down the street away from the hotel and towards the unknown. He imagined Emma felt pretty cool arriving on Erik’s scooter, and wondered what she’d think about it now as it carried her date and his best friend far away from her. Fuck Emma Frost anyway, Charles had thought through his haze of scotch and drugs and lust. Erik had kissed him.

It hadn’t taken Charles long to figure out that Erik had no idea where he was going. They zipped up and down the clogged New York streets, weaving through traffic, until Erik had turned his scooter into Central Park. Charles had swallowed his fear. There were a million things wrong about this. It was dark. The park was dangerous. They could get arrested. It wouldn't be the end of the world if Charles was arrested. The Xavier name still held some sway in the city, and everyone took pity on the poor little rich boy whose father had committed suicide with the recession. But Erik...Erik would get kicked out of St. Jude’s.

But Erik had kissed him. And the world was shining, and Charles was high and happy, so he just held onto Erik tighter.

Erik had pulled to a stop in the plaza surrounding Bethesda fountain. Before Charles could say anything, Erik twisted around and captured Charles mouth, kissed him, then kissed him again, like he couldn’t get enough.

Charles had a million questions. What was happening? Was it real? What did it mean? Erik...Erik was straight. He was was straight, wasn’t he? But Erik was kissing him, over and over, moaning between kisses, his fingers pulling at Charles starched tuxedo shirt, hands slipping under the stiff fabric, large and warm, so Charles ignored all those questions and went with the flow.

When Erik finally pulled away, resting his forehead against Charles’, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just run a marathon, Charles managed to whisper something about being drunk and high and needing to go home. Because if Erik kissed him again, Charles was going to want more, and while kissing your best was one thing, having drunken sex with him was something else entirely.

“Okay.” Erik had whispered roughly. “Okay.” He'd repeated, as if he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Okay.

Charles had tried to memorize the way it felt to wrap his arms around Erik the entire way back to his mother’s Upper East Side apartment, keenly aware it could be the last time. When they arrived outside his building he had quickly climbed off the scooter before Erik could give him a speech about how they both should really forget what had happened, stammering something like ‘thank you for the ride’ before Erik could say anything. That what happened was a mistake was the last thing Charles had wanted to hear. Not then. Not when his lips still tingled from kissing his best friend.

“So, uh see you Monday.” Charles had said quickly, unable to look Erik in the eye, shifting his weight from side to side and thinking how much he hated this moment. He remembers how Erik had awkwardly answered ‘Yeah’ as he looked away. Charles had felt his heart drop. It seemed Erik was starting to realize exactly what had happened. Charles felt his face start to turn crimson red and fighting back the urge to apologize, to fall on his knees and beg Erik to still be his friend, he had turned and headed into his building, leaving Erik sitting on his scooter, watching him leave.

Fucking fall formal disaster.

Charles had managed to hold back the tears until he got into the elevator.

Charles hadn’t gone to bed right away. He was still high and uncomfortably hard in his dress slacks, so he’d gone straight to his room, stripped off his clothes, and crawled into bed naked. He’d reached down and grasped hold of his aching, rock-hard dick and jacked himself off to the memory of Erik’s lips on his. Then he’d fallen asleep, only to dream of Erik, because he’d kissed Erik and Erik had kissed him back.

Now Charles is wide awake, his head is pounding, he is filled with regret and he wants to die.

Normally on a Sunday Erik might call him to see if he wants to hang out, see a movie,go to the library or something. Charles knows Erik won’t call today. Oh god, maybe he’ll leave St. Jude's. Maybe he’ll never see him again. Charles fights the urge to grab his iPhone and text Erik. What would he say anyway? ‘How ‘bout them Yankees? You’re a good kisser.’

The BEST kisser.

“Oh god,” Charles moans, rolling onto his side. He is so fucked.

Sharon barely glances up when Charles finally makes it to the dining room table. He hates how his mother makes him eat in this cavernous room, preferring to slouch over a bowl of cold cereal at the bar in the kitchen. It’s part of the price of being an Xavier.

“Hungover?” She asks as she turns a page of the newspaper she’s reading. Charles looks down at the plate of scrambled eggs and toast one of the maids has set down in front of him. His stomach flips.

“Yeah.” Charles says. Sharon doesn’t care what he does, as long as she can show him off at her parties. “Kurt?” Charles grunts.

“Golf.” Sharon says flatly. Charles hates his mother. He hates their penthouse. He hates how cold and austere it is, with the original art on the walls and floor the ceiling windows. That’s what Erik doesn’t get. His walkup might be cluttered, and there might be laundry on the couch, but it’s warm and inviting and feels like home.

Erik. He kissed Erik.

Charles feels sick and it has nothing to do with being hungover.

The rest of his day passes in one big nauseated blur. Charles tries to distract himself but nothing works. Xbox just reminds him of Xbox with Erik. Homework makes him think about the park, lying on the blanket next to Erik, his textbook ignored as they discuss the Republican frontrunners for the upcoming election. What has he done? What has he given up just for one kiss. Damn Emma Frost and her dealer for those pills. If he hadn’t been high, if he hadn’t been happy, maybe he would have been able to resist Erik being so handsome and smelling so good and being so ERIK. He’s lost his friend. He’s lost everything.

Charles can’t sleep that night. He tosses and turns, considers telling his mother he’s sick. He has a fever. A love fever. Oh god, he’s becoming a god-damned cliche, boy in love with his best friend, boy kisses best friend, boy loses best friend forever, boy doesn’t want to go to school. Finally, his alarm goes off and Charles rolls out of bed, pads into the bathroom and turns on the shower. He looks in the mirror as the water warms up and sees that he looks horrible. Bags under his bloodshot eyes. If there was some small chance Erik didn’t regret kissing him, he surely would now.

When Charles finally arrives at St. Jude’s, their driver dropping him at the front doors, he notes immediately that Erik is nowhere in sight. Before he panics, he reminds himself that Erik isn’t usually there this early. When he doesn’t see him at lunch, he tells himself that Erik hasn’t dropped out. They often don’t eat lunch together on Mondays. As much as Charles thinks everything should be topsy-turvy, everything seems strangely normal. Finally he finishes his last class, grabs his overloaded backpack and head out to the front of St. Jude’s to where the town car will pick him up. Charles pushes through the heavy wood doors into the outside and starts down the steps towards the sidewalk when he stops and stares.

Erik.

He’s at the bottom of the steps, straddling his light blue scooter and fiddling with the strap of his helmet. Charles stares at him for a long moment, then two students come through the doors behind him, talking loudly about some concert they’re going to attend, and at the sound of their voices, Erik looks up. He sees Charles standing at the top of the stairs and then he does something entirely unexpected.

He smiles.

Charles melts.

Oh god, Charles loves it when Erik smiles.

For the first time Charles starts to think that maybe kissing his best friend wasn’t the worst thing he could have ever done, because his best friend is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs and his best friend is grinning at him, a wide, almost dangerous grin, and it appears that his best friend didn’t mind kissing him so much because he’s still here.

Charles shifts his backpack and starts to bound down the stairs towards where Erik is waiting.

“You’re here.” Erik says when Charles comes into earshot.

“Well, it’s school.” Charles says, confused about why Erik would think he wouldn’t be there.

“I mean, after Saturday, I thought...I just figured….”

“You remember Saturday?” Charles asks, trying to quell the fear that starts to grow.

“I wasn’t THAT drunk.” Erik says with a small laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes, I remember." He murmurs. "I can’t forget.”

Charles starts to grin.

“So does that mean that you might…”

Charles words trail off as Erik steps over his scooter and walks over to tower over Charles, grinning down at him.

“Um.” Charles says, not quite sure how to respond to Erik suddenly being so close to him. So close he can feel Erik's body heat. He takes a breath starts to ask his question again. “Does that mean you might like kissing me?”

“Yes.” Erik says. He dips his head and kisses Charles, a quick, gently press of the lips, then pulls back and flashes him a grin. “It means I might.”

They are both silent for a long moment. Charles’ head is spinning. Finally Erik takes in a breath and Charles jumps a little at the sound.

“Want to go to the park?” Erik asks. Charles looks at him, his heart so full it might burst and frowns a little. Their entire relationship has shifted and Erik just asks Charles if he wants to go to the park, like they always do. Erik glances to one side and shifts a bit, then looks back at Charles, as if he knows he should say something to mark this moment. “And, um, you’re a really good kisser.”

Oh.

Okay.

“Yeah. The park.” Charles says with a shrug. Erik smiles. Charles loves it when he smiles. Erik reaches into his bag and hands Charles a helmet. His helmet. His helmet for riding behind Erik on his scooter. Charles puts it on and climbs on the scooter, settling behind Erik and wrapping his arms around his waist. He buries his face in Erik’s flannel shirt and inhales deeply.

Charles smiles.

Somehow everything turned out just perfect.

~fin~


End file.
